him and step away.
“Take care of him, Mrs. Macintosh,” I said lightly.
“You need na fear for Master Nicky, lass,” my faithful housekeeper said firmly. “He is as dear to me as if he were my verra ain bairn.”
I think that the only thing that enabled me to get into the coach was that I knew she was speaking the truth.
I scarcely registered the fact that the Earl of Savile had entered the coach after me and was sitting on the cushioned seat at a distance of barely a foot.
We pulled out of my stable yard and onto the road that would take us to the village of Highgate and thence onto the highway to Kent.
I didn’t say anything, I just stared blindly at the empty seat opposite mine, trying desperately not to cry.
At last Savile spoke. “He really will be all right, you know.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “Most boys of eight are packed off to school, separated from their mothers for many months at a time.”
I knew this was so.
I said in a constricted voice, “It is just that since my husband’s death, Nicky and I have been rather on our own. It has made us very close.”
“I can understand that.” His voice was, if possible, even gentler. “But you cannot smother him, Mrs. Saunders. He must learn to stand on his own.”
A jolt of healthy anger shot through me. “I have always been of the opinion that it is extremely easy for those who have no children to give advice to those who do,” I snapped.
“Doubtless you are right,” came the serene reply. “I did have a son once, but both he and his mother died two days after he was born. I can only assure you that I have two nephews and a niece whom I am often called upon to entertain, and so my knowledge of children is not totally theoretical.”
Well, of course I felt utterly dreadful. The poor man—to lose a wife and a child like that!
“I am so sorry, my lord,” I said with genuine contrition. “I did not mean to stir up an old wound.”
“It happened eight years ago,” he returned. “I can assure you that though the scar is still there, it no longer aches.”
I had lost Tommy six years ago. “I know exactly what you mean,” I said.
We sat in sympathetic silence for perhaps ten minutes.
Then I began to be aware that we were shut up together in the coach and that his thigh was not a foot away from mine. I felt a flush of heat course through me.
What is the matter with you, Gail? I asked myself in agitation. You never feel like this!
I cleared my throat and asked, “Who is likely to be at the reading of this will, my lord?”
He leaned his shoulders against the rather worn blue velvet squabs, slid down a little on his spine, closing infinitesimally the space between us, and folded his arms across his chest. “Harriet will be there, of course, draped in her new blacks. She was not pleased that I refused to have the will read at Devane Hall and instead forced her to make the trip to Savile Castle.”
There was a dry note in the earl’s voice when he spoke of Lady Devane that one could not miss. I said nothing, however. Harriet Melville, Lady Devane, could be the most angelic person in the world and I would still have hated her.
Savile continued, “Harriet will, of course, be accompanied by her father. She is always accompanied by her father. His name is Albert Cole, and he made his money working poor wretches to death in the cotton mills of Manchester.”
Savile did not even attempt to disguise his dislike of George’s father-in-law. “It was Cole money that bought Harriet her position as George’s wife, of course. My uncle’s pockets were all-to-let; poor George had no choice about whom he could wed. It was marry money or flee the country.”
He spoke in a soft, even tone, clearly conscious that he was treading on very precarious ground.
I could feel how my whole body had stiffened. “If George had resisted, I am convinced that another way out of the family financial difficulties could have been found,” I said
“Take care of him, Mrs. Macintosh,” I said lightly.
“You need na fear for Master Nicky, lass,” my faithful housekeeper said firmly. “He is as dear to me as if he were my verra ain bairn.”
I think that the only thing that enabled me to get into the coach was that I knew she was speaking the truth.
I scarcely registered the fact that the Earl of Savile had entered the coach after me and was sitting on the cushioned seat at a distance of barely a foot.
We pulled out of my stable yard and onto the road that would take us to the village of Highgate and thence onto the highway to Kent.
I didn’t say anything, I just stared blindly at the empty seat opposite mine, trying desperately not to cry.
At last Savile spoke. “He really will be all right, you know.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “Most boys of eight are packed off to school, separated from their mothers for many months at a time.”
I knew this was so.
I said in a constricted voice, “It is just that since my husband’s death, Nicky and I have been rather on our own. It has made us very close.”
“I can understand that.” His voice was, if possible, even gentler. “But you cannot smother him, Mrs. Saunders. He must learn to stand on his own.”
A jolt of healthy anger shot through me. “I have always been of the opinion that it is extremely easy for those who have no children to give advice to those who do,” I snapped.
“Doubtless you are right,” came the serene reply. “I did have a son once, but both he and his mother died two days after he was born. I can only assure you that I have two nephews and a niece whom I am often called upon to entertain, and so my knowledge of children is not totally theoretical.”
Well, of course I felt utterly dreadful. The poor man—to lose a wife and a child like that!
“I am so sorry, my lord,” I said with genuine contrition. “I did not mean to stir up an old wound.”
“It happened eight years ago,” he returned. “I can assure you that though the scar is still there, it no longer aches.”
I had lost Tommy six years ago. “I know exactly what you mean,” I said.
We sat in sympathetic silence for perhaps ten minutes.
Then I began to be aware that we were shut up together in the coach and that his thigh was not a foot away from mine. I felt a flush of heat course through me.
What is the matter with you, Gail? I asked myself in agitation. You never feel like this!
I cleared my throat and asked, “Who is likely to be at the reading of this will, my lord?”
He leaned his shoulders against the rather worn blue velvet squabs, slid down a little on his spine, closing infinitesimally the space between us, and folded his arms across his chest. “Harriet will be there, of course, draped in her new blacks. She was not pleased that I refused to have the will read at Devane Hall and instead forced her to make the trip to Savile Castle.”
There was a dry note in the earl’s voice when he spoke of Lady Devane that one could not miss. I said nothing, however. Harriet Melville, Lady Devane, could be the most angelic person in the world and I would still have hated her.
Savile continued, “Harriet will, of course, be accompanied by her father. She is always accompanied by her father. His name is Albert Cole, and he made his money working poor wretches to death in the cotton mills of Manchester.”
Savile did not even attempt to disguise his dislike of George’s father-in-law. “It was Cole money that bought Harriet her position as George’s wife, of course. My uncle’s pockets were all-to-let; poor George had no choice about whom he could wed. It was marry money or flee the country.”
He spoke in a soft, even tone, clearly conscious that he was treading on very precarious ground.
I could feel how my whole body had stiffened. “If George had resisted, I am convinced that another way out of the family financial difficulties could have been found,” I said
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